It was just over a year ago that a dermatologist called me to let me know that the mole she had removed from my upper back had been identified as melanoma. I remember that moment so clearly. Feeling like the earth had suddenly stopped spinning. It wasn’t quite a life flashing before my eyes moment, but I definitely had a rush of fear and thoughts come up. What does this mean? Life would never be the same, I thought.
Fast forward a few months, it was the summer, and I was walking with a friend back to his car after a breathwork workshop. He asked me how I was doing. I remember telling him things were hard. I had pretty intense anxiety at that point in time. Every ache or symptom that would come up would trigger a thought spiral, worrying that it could be metastatic cancer. But I also remember telling him about how I didn’t want to let this experience escape me. In an odd way, I felt lucky to have this experience, no matter how devastating. I wanted to lean into it. Lean into the fear, the uncertainty, the messiness, the vulnerability, and also the insights, the goodness, and the community.
Like when I went for my first nuclear scan to identify the sentinel lymph nodes. The technician had to inject 4 syringes of radio opaque liquid into the scar where my mole had been shaved off my back. It’s as painful as it sounds. But what was more difficult was waiting in the waiting room, surrounded by mostly older women who were evidently sick. Most of them with a partner or other support person present. Their bodies emaciated, some without hair on their heads, tired looks on their faces. Was this what my future held?
What I remember most of that day, though, was the feeling of gratitude I felt once I was in the scan room with the technician and her student. How warm and welcoming they were. How the student spoke to me and distracted me through the pain of the injections. How they took the time to answer all my curious questions, never making me feel rushed or like I was annoying. I remember laying back on the table and looking at the big, imposing machine in front of me, and thinking how great it was that we have public health care. That in the midst of this journey, at least I didn’t have to worry about financing my care. I also felt grateful to be back in Ottawa. How lonely and scary it would have been to go through this when I was in Kenora or British Columbia, away from my family and friends.
And I fell asleep. My system taking in all those supportive factors, feeling safe, slipping into a sweet, gentle slumber.
Not all my experiences were so positive, though. My family doctor’s comment of “it’s not the end of the world” not 30 minutes after I received the diagnosis landed harshly. I felt really upset at first, but then I remember realizing that her reaction was more about her than about me. I felt strongly that my grief, my reaction, my fear were valid and warranted. I trusted that it would go away, but I also felt protective about it. I didn’t want that comment or anyone else making me feel as though it was wrong, as though it should be different or made to be fixed. No.
Quickly, I realized that I would not necessarily get the emotional support I needed from the medical system. Nor the validation.
I have to admit I hold a certain level of resentment for how the medicalization of my emotions has caused me great harm over the last two decades. How quick my doctor was to slap on a medical label to my suffering and try to “correct” it with medications. How year after year, when I’d show up in her office, if I was crying, she would remind me that my brain had a problem and that I should simply take medication. Like a diabetic would take insulin.
A bit of rage bubbles up inside me as I write this.
So last summer, as I navigated this melanoma journey, it felt a bit like redemption. This medical experience would be *different*. I vowed to advocate for myself, stay true to myself. I would not let the medical system rush me along for its convenience.
But quickly I realized I would not get the validation I needed from the medical system and its burnt out providers. I felt angry and sad. But then I turned to my family, friends and therapist, people I knew would be able to hold my suffering in a much more gentle and humane way than Western medicine could.
Now that’s not to say that I didn’t meet some amazing and caring providers along the way. My surgeon was a God send. As were the two anesthetists I met in the operative process. The one who was there on the day of my surgery even took the time to ask me about my psychedelic use when she came to speak to me outside the OR room as they were prepping for me. I had been honest on my intake forms about my use of psychedelics in therapeutic contexts, and she showed genuine curious interest in it. We talked about Psilocybin and ketamine, and she happily announced that I’d be getting ketamine during surgery that day.
The surgery went well. They removed a total of 7 lymph nodes from a combined 3 sites. And they removed a chunk of skin from my upper back measuring 9x2cm by 3cm deep 🤢. There were no complications and I woke up promptly in the OR room. I remember someone commenting that they’d never seen someone wake up so quickly from anesthesia as I was wheeled out of the room, and I lifted my arm to wave goodbye.
The first few hours were great as I rode the high of anesthesics and narcotics that flooded my body. Colin brought me flowers and an iced cap in the recovery room, and I made jokes with the nurses.
Shit hit the fan the next day, as the drugs wore off and the pain creeped up. I’ll write more about the post-op period in another blog post because it was a pretty hellish journey and it deserves its own stand alone post.
But this post today is about reconnecting to my melanoma journey as a whole. A friend asked me yesterday if I had integrated my cancer journey. And as I reflected on his question, it made me remember how badly I did not want this cancer experience to be swept under a rug. I don’t want to forget the intensity of emotions and experiences it brought me over those 6 or 7 months. And especially in that whole month after my surgery. How much it highlighted what is important to me, how easily I can let go of things, and especially how loved and supported I can feel, if I let myself.
So this blog post marks a renewed commitment to a practice of connecting to my cancer experience, but especially the lessons that have come from it.
The Stories in my Head 